A Trial of the Heart: Chapter Three
00000000000
When a deep injury is done to us, we never recover until we forgive.
–Alan Paton.
00000000000
The darkness richly encircled her bed, casting unidentifiable shadows over her ceiling. Sara lay sprawled on her back, splintered arm propped by her head on another pillow, tracing the ghostly contours with sharp, weary eyes.
Sleep came only with the threat of nightmares, the vivid, lasting images that haunted her by day manifesting into their own version of reality in slumber. A doctor had prescribed her sleeping pills, but she refused to relinquish that last grasp of control on her consciousness, and left them unopened in her medicine cabinet.
The distant sounds of Greg snoring drifted from the next room, and Sara rolled to a sitting position, throwing the sheets from her body. She ran the fingers of her good hand tentatively through her short brown locks, avoiding a particularly nasty graze on her hairline, and her eyes locked on the cordless phone by the side of her bed.
For the smallest, fleeting moment, she wanted to pick it up, and hear the sound of Grissom's voice. The velvety, soothing tone caressing her ear, reminding her that he was safe, and they had gotten out alive.
Then she remembered the reason he had been there in the first place, and looked away, lowering her hand to her side.
Sara closed her eyes, rising to her feet, moving soundlessly across the carpet into the living room. Greg was sprawled in an uncomfortable position on her sofa, arms and legs hanging over all edges, blanket twisted around his lank form. She watched him a moment, sliding past the sofa towards the small kitchen, wondering if he had any idea how much his mere presence comforted her.
She lifted a glass from an upper cupboard, holding it under the faucet and filling it with water. She leant against the cabinet, swallowing the cool liquid with relish. Water, something she had always taken for granted, was now just another petty luxury she savoured. Just another mere comfort he had taken from her.
The warehouse was a tall and imposing structure, jagged boards jutting out over the doorway, and rusty, chemical drums littering the front.
David's coroner van was still missing, presumedly held up in the traffic that had hindered Sara's own progress to the outer industrial neighbourhood.
Brass' unmarked police cruiser was parked under a tree, with the hefty captain leaning casually against it, examining something on his shoe. He glanced up as Sara's Tahoe ground to a halt, and she jumped out, sliding her sunglasses over her eyes as she approached him.
"Hey, Sara", he called amiably, straightening from his vehicle. "You solo on this one?"
She nodded, flashing him a brief smile in greeting. "What've we got?"
Brass nodded back at the dilapidated building, where the two arriving officers emerged, features distinctly ashen. One retreated hastily to the bushes, the unmistakable sounds of him retching immediately reaching their ears.
Sara tilted an eyebrow, merely glancing at Brass; awaiting his explanation.
"Got a call from a few neighbourhood kids", he said, gesturing vaguely down the road where she assumed they had come from. "They thought it was abandoned and found something… interesting when they decided to break in and check the place out."
Sara lifted her kit against her side, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Okay. Well, let's go check it out".
Brass hesitated, placing a hand on her upper arm. "I gotta warn you, kid… it's pretty messy in there. Even for us".
Sara nodded, letting him know she could handle it, even as she let her mind anticipate his grim warning.
Sara lowered her head, depositing the empty glass on the edge of the sink. Shakes involuntarily ran through her body as her mind flashed back to the influx of their nightmare, and she slid to the floor, clutching her arms around herself, allowing a muted, broken sob to burst from her lips.
The interior of the warehouse was dim; with muted shafts of sunlight filtering through the overhead slats of wood, and Sara slid her shades on top of her head, giving her eyes a moment to adjust.
Brass moved more leisurely behind her, examining the scene with his typical, practiced alertness.
Sara's movements were more fluid as she initially took in the scene. The vast warehouse led into a narrow hall, littered with boxes and old plastic crates. Sara withdrew her maglite, striding slowly down it, rounding a corner. She carefully stepped around several serrated scraps of metal, wondering exactly what the warehouse had housed when it was in operation.
She stopped, shining the light down the confined passage as her gaze took in the constructions before her. Crude, iron bars ran alongside one side of the hall, extending nearly all the way to the ceiling. They separated off into separate, provisional prison cells.
She opened her mouth in surprise as the stench hit her nostrils just as abruptly, and she forced herself to breath through her mouth as she neared the closest cell.
It was unlocked, but clearly no one had attempted to break into the cell to commence resuscitation. She could see why.
Rough chains circled the arms and shoulders of the victim, pinning the man against the grimy cinder block wall. His entire body was horribly disfigured and blackened, torn up with horrific burns and gashes. His hair stood impossibly stiff and on end, and his clothes were torn and singed, partially melted onto the barely remaining skin of his torso.
Sara swallowed, forcing back the bile that she felt, suddenly understanding why such seasoned officers had thrown up at a scene.
She drew in a deep breath, scanning the interior of the cell, trying to determine what had caused his electrocution.
Further examination of the body revealed fragments of skin melted to the wall, and she realised he had been electrocuted in place somehow.
She lowered her maglite, huffing a small, shaky breath. This was torture of the cruellest kind. Someone had gone to severe lengths to ensure this man suffered.
A low, strange sound came from somewhere further to her right, and Sara jumped, twisting to her side. She shone her light into the next cell, and her cry for Brass died on her lips.
A woman sat huddled in the far corner of the nearest cell, concealed by the dark shadows lining the edges of the edifice. Her hair was coiled in oily, thick masses in front of her features, but her eyes peered out at Sara between the strands, wide and unfocused.
Gashes and lighter, less severe burns marked her arms and neck, and Sara stared at her in horror, as another low, mumbled gurgle came from her lips.
Just as Sara moved forward, she sprung to life, launching at the locked door of the cage with force. The chains that bound her wrists immediately pulled her back, slamming her against the wall, but she merely struggled again, mindless to the pain she had to be causing herself, raging like some wild, broken animal.
"BRASS!" Sara shouted, finding her voice, unconsciously stepping back against the other wall. She felt tears prick at her eyes, and she blinked them away, gripped with overwhelming sadness as she stared at this tortured, insane woman.
"Sara. Sara. Are you okay?"
The quaking, fearful voice broke into her thoughts, and Sara hastily blinked, swallowing as she glanced up at the hovering figure.
Greg crouched down in front of her, approaching her like a wounded animal, and Sara swallowed, leaning her head back against the counter and closing her eyes.
"I'm fine. I am. I'm fine".
Greg hesitated, and she looked at him, hair mussed at all angles, striped blue pyjama pants ridiculously out of place in her plain, muted kitchen.
She saw the confliction in his gaze, and she blinked, slowly shaking her head. "Greg—"
"Do you want me to call Grissom?"
She knew he would ask. Why couldn't he understand she wasn't the same Sara she had been two weeks ago? Grissom's presence wasn't a comfort for her anymore-- he wasn't the neutral party of her life she could rely on to remain ever constant and non-changing in his feelings for her.
"No", she snapped, more forcefully than intended. "I don't need Grissom".
Grissom was handling things. Grissom was seeing a counsellor tomorrow. A psychologist. After everything they had been through, and he felt secure enough to speak to a psychologist.
Greg swallowed, obviously sensing he had said the wrong thing. The ex-lab rat looked suitably upset to have caused her any further distress. "Okay. Well, do you think maybe it's a good idea for you to take some of that Restoril the doctor prescribed?"
Sara blinked, surprised he knew that, and he shrugged casually. "I may have interrogated the doctor a little before I came here."
She sighed, closing her eyes heavily. "I don't want to take it. I don't need drugs to get through this."
Greg shrugged gently. "Hey, I'm with you on that, but these are just going to help you sleep. They might even fix the anxiety a little. It's not a bad thing to admit you need help sometimes, Sara".
Sara looked away, and Greg rose, holding out his hands. She silently allowed him to pull her to her feet, meeting his gaze hesitantly. "I'm only taking one".
A small, sad smile pulled at Greg's lips, and he quickly hid it, nodding with grim satisfaction. "All you need", he agreed, guiding her back to her bedroom.
0000000000000
"Now, Dr. Grissom, I understand you might be a little reluctant to be here. It's understandable, particularly after the trauma you've endured. I want you to understand I'm only here to address any concerns you might have, and to talk through anything you might feel like sharing."
Grissom stared back at the aging doctor, an unthreatening, greying woman with kindly, open brown eyes and a non-inquisitive expression. He thought Sara might like her, and that Dr. Muller was probably a good choice for a psychologist, a stereotypical figure if ever he saw one.
As a personal preference, he didn't share personal details with strangers. He rarely even shared them with those he considered close to him. He thought of Catherine as his best friend, yet she still knew little about him beyond a professional level, and what she did know she had coerced forcibly out of him.
He was here because the department needed reassurance that at least one of them was recovering from the ordeal properly, and because… despite his best efforts, he couldn't lock his emotions up inside anymore. He needed to at least vent some of his emotions, allow himself to understand that his reactions were normal. That Sara's reactions were normal.
He trusted this woman, at least on some basic level. She had spoken both to he and Sara initially when they were first admitted to hospital, but he doubted Sara would remember that experience too readily. She hadn't exactly reacted in the best way possible.
"How have you been readjusting to your work?" Dr. Miller asked politely. He found it somewhat reassuring she didn't have a notepad of diagnostic notes open on her lap, and equally reassuring she hadn't asked him to lie down on a horizontal couch.
He shrugged, studying the qualifications over her shoulder. "The work isn't very taxing at this stage", he replied nonchalantly. "It's not difficult."
She nodded, studying him thoughtfully. "That sounds like it bothers you".
Grissom sighed, folding his palms on his lap. "I've never been particularly partial to paperwork. I just want to return to my old routine as soon as possible".
"That's understandable. So if work isn't an issue, is there something else that bothers you?"
Grissom met her gaze, unconsciously rubbing the graze on his wrist again. "Why is this effecting Sara so badly?"
The doctor grew quiet as she contemplated this question. "It's very possible she has developed Post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD," she admitted at last. "It's not uncommon for people after they have experienced a life-threatening event. There are many factors that make a person more susceptible to it. Heightened stress in their lives, or an early age of long-lasting childhood trauma such as abuse or sexual assault."
Grissom swallowed, staring numbly at the doctor. Abuse. He remembered Sara's confession about her family's dark past after her suspension a few months ago. She hadn't said she was abused personally, and he hadn't asked. Unfortunately, it was a possibility he hadn't allowed himself to consider at the time because he wasn't willing to accept it.
He lowered his head, trying out the words. "Post traumatic stress. Is there treatment for it?"
Dr Muller shrugged. "There are some medications, but they don't really solve the problem. My best advice would be therapy, but it sounds like Sara has already refused that."
He nodded. "Yes. She think she can work through it alone".
The doctor sighed. "Ordinarily, I'd say that is possible, albeit not recommended. Sara has proven she is a strong, versatile woman. But her trauma was… one of the severest I have ever seen. Her behaviour may become even more erratic. Sara can't face this alone, despite what she may believe. The more she isolates herself from others… the harder it will be for her to recover."
0000000000000
